Six or seven black-and-white framed prints of naked women lined the walls. Tristan was no prude, but he found them quite shocking as they walked down the corridor. Bill led the way, followed by Bev, and then Tristan and Kate. The models were artfully lit, but the photos were explicit. One print was a close-up of a woman’s vagina and next to it was a man’s hand, holding an unpeeled banana.
Tristan glanced back at Kate to see what she thought, and she raised an eyebrow. When he turned back, he saw Bev had noticed their exchange, and she laughed nervously.
“Bill’s an art collector,” she said. “They’re all limited-edition prints. Worth a lot of money. The artist is very high profile. What’s his name again?”
Bev seemed keen for them to think that the pictures on the wall were art and not porn. Tristan wondered if Bev had objected to them being on the wall when she’d moved in.
“Arata Hayashi. He’s a very inventive Japanese visual artist. I was invited to his exhibition when I was there on business last year,” said Bill.
“What kind of business are you in?” asked Tristan.
“Construction. I started out with office buildings, and more recently we’ve moved into roads. I own a company that supplies all the building materials for large motorway construction projects.”
“Bill’s company just resurfaced the M4 motorway,” said Bev, proudly.
Tristan thought how long the M4 motorway stretched—two hundred miles, from London into South Wales. That was a lot of cement and tarmac.
Bill opened the door at the end of the corridor that led to his office. It was dark in comparison to the rest of the house, with lots of heavy wood furniture, and bookshelves, and a gun cabinet on the wall where a row of shotguns sat behind the polished glass.
Mounted on the wall above the desk was a large stag’s head. Tristan felt a pang of sadness at seeing its open mouth and mournful eyes. He was about to ask Bill if he hunted, when he noticed a pile of cardboard police evidence boxes stacked up beside a black marble fireplace. Each was labeled JOANNA DUNCAN CASE FILE and had a number.
“Are these official police case files?” Kate asked, moving over to the pile of boxes.
“Yes,” said Bill.
Tristan saw Kate was frowning.
“Bill got them for me,” said Bev, as if they were something he’d ordered for her online.
“In the past I’ve known the police to allow a family member to view parts of a case file, under supervision in the station . . . I’ve never known of case files out on, what? On loan?” asked Kate, raising an eyebrow at Bill.
“Yes. I have them for three months,” said Bill.
“Officially?”
Bill went over to his desk and picked up a piece of paper and handed it to Kate. Tristan joined her and saw that it was an official letter from Superintendent Allen Cowen of the Devon and Cornwall police. The letter thanked Bill for writing and expressed gratitude for his donations to the Golden Lantern, a police benevolent fund, and said that considering the support he’d given for the families of fallen police officers, they would grant access to the Joanna Duncan cold-case files to pursue civil investigations.
“The case is now inactive, a cold case. That letter confirms we have police consent to access the case files,” said Bill.
Tristan went over to the boxes. He counted twenty.
“Have you had a look through the files?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Bill.
“Did the police take Jo’s laptop and her files from work?” asked Kate.
“No. We think Jo had her laptop and her notebooks with her when she went missing,” said Bev. “They’ve never been found.”
“The police took away some other work files and paperwork that was on Jo’s desk. They’re in the case files, but they’re vague notes about other stories she was working on,” said Bill.
There was another long silence. The office was warm and stuffy, and there was a gamy whiff coming from the stag’s head, which made Tristan feel queasy.
“I tried to look through all this. I thought it would help me and give me some answers, but there’s so much there,” said Bev. “All questions, too many questions and no answers . . . It shows me that the police really didn’t have a fucking clue. I need a drink . . . sorry,” she added, moving to a globe bar to the right of the desk and opening it to reveal a selection of bottles inside. She poured a large measure of whiskey into a cut-glass tumbler, took a sip, and wiped her mouth with shaking hands.
“Can I get either of you a drink?” asked Bill, joining Bev and pouring himself a whiskey to try and defuse the situation. There was a pause, and Tristan quickly said no. The cut-glass crystal tumbler was so large that Bev had to cradle it in both hands.